


The Ghost of Ol’ 97

by Simp_4_Trains



Category: Starlight Express - Phillips/Stilgoe/Webber
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:20:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27290356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simp_4_Trains/pseuds/Simp_4_Trains
Summary: During the Apollo Victoria's first ever night shift, Greaseball and Electra are told a ghostly tale by Poppa that C.B. may or may not have a connection to...
Kudos: 9





	The Ghost of Ol’ 97

**Author's Note:**

> This was a collaborative effort with some of my friends on discord i.e. MadJames, Rhapsody Blue, myself, and the co-author I listed. Mad James and Rhapsody Blue did the writing, but they let me post this on my a03 account because they don't own ones.

It had been a long, busy day for the engines of the Apollo Victoria Railyard, but they were able to trundle back home to the yards they called home. Control announced it was closing time, and C.B. grinned as he unhitched from the freight train as Rusty pulled in.

“So long, suckers! I’ve got a hot date with a little lady and her name is…Dinah”, C.B. grinned as he held up a portrait of a familiar Southern dining car. Suddenly, he heard some banging on the entry gate and skated over to see a Nickelplate Road Mikado named Ryan pull up with an express train. He blew his whistle as C.B. crossed his arms.

“What is it?”, C.B. asked rather annoyedly.

“Hey, caboose; you open for business?”, questioned Ryan as he backed away from the gate.

“Read the sign, dimwit,” responded C.B. snarkily as he pointed towards a sign that read “Hours: 6am - 9:30pm / Open annually, closed holidays and April 20th”. The Mikado seemed unperturbed as he moved to show his line of express coaches, who were looking rather impatient.

“If you’re willing to open the gates for FIVE MINUTES tops, I’ll be refueled and on my way before you guys even notice,” he explained as C.B. grinned evilly.

“Listen, pally; I can’t stay around listening to your ‘Melancholy’. I have something we call A LIFE to get to,” the caboose explained as the Mikado frowned.

“No, YOU listen here, you muppet! The high-speed line is closed, my passengers are getting restless, I’m low on coal and water and furthermore-”, Ryan explained before C.B., seething like an enraged animal, ran up to the gates and shook the bars angrily as he growled at the Mikado.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU LITTLE FUCK! NO ONE, AND I MEAN NO ONE, CALLS ME A FUCKING MUPPET! I WILL-”, C.B. screeched as he pulled Ryan by the neck towards him. But before the two could start brawling, the intercom screeched with feedback before Control’s voice rang out.

“Control! Control! Disruption at Entry Gate Northwest! Caboose, explain yourself,” spoke the trainmaster as C.B. hissed at the intercom’s speaker.

“He. Called. Me. A. FUCKING. Muppet!”, C.B. punctuated as he growled towards the Mikado, who was now starting to look desperate.

“What’s it to ya, honey?”, Ryan cracked as C.B.’s eye twitched. His head turned 180° towards the steamer.

“What’s it to ME?!”, he hissed as his teeth began to froth before Control snapped back in.

“Penalty, penalty! Use of vulgar language before closing time! 20 penalty points; looks like you’ll be spending a week in the Toybox starting tomorrow morning!”, Control announced as C.B. groaned.

“Why me?”, he muttered as Control turned her attention towards Ryan, who was now clinging onto the gate’s iron bars and looking up pleadingly.

“PLEASE! You gotta let me in; my passengers are restless, I’m almost out of fuel, the high-speed line’s closed for maintenance, there’s a crazed Norfolk/Southern diesel chasing after me and I wanna go back to Greenwood!”, Ryan pleaded as he looked up at Control’s speakerphone.

“Did you say the high-speed line was closed?”, Control asked for clarification. Ryan nodded eagerly, and Control pondered before she got an idea.

“Apollo Victoria Railyard, welcome to the night shift! For one night only, the railyard will be open to all trains from here to Bay City!”, she announced as the engines stopped getting ready for the evening. Greaseball and Electra were particularly indignant.

“WHAT?!”, they both shouted as they raced to their nearest intercom. Rusty, despite being worn out from pulling the freight, looked up interestingly.

“Nope; not you, Rusty. You’ve had a long day’s work; besides, you’ve got a special job in the morning. Go to your shed and rest up,” Control told him as Rusty smiled. He slowly puffed into his shed and closed the doors as G.B. and Electra raced up.

“You can’t send me to do night work, Control! I’ve been helping Poppa with the express runs to Fairfield all day!”, moaned G.B. as he tried making his muscular arms look sagged and worn out to no success.

“And I’ve been helping construct some wiretowers along the route to Neon York to help my fellow electrics move down the line without losing their currents!”, complained Electra as she poofed up her mohawk.

“Now, now. No complaining from either of you; we still have a yard to run. And if you two can do your jobs without further questions, you’ll each get a paid day off,” Control explained as C.B. popped up once again.

“Money?!”, he grinned before G.B. and Electra turned to glare at him. The caboose looked up at Control and batted his eyes in an attempt to look innocent. “Pwease?”, he said as G.B. facepalmed.

“C.B., don’t think this will get you out of the Toybox,” responded Control firmly as C.B. continued playing up the “innocent farmboy” routine he had mastered over his years of deception and trickery.

“I know I’ve done wrong, Control, but please; if it gets me a shorter sentence, I’d be more than willing to help these two out on their last big night run, if that’s alright,” he asked with a squeakish voice as Electra covered her ears to block out the irritating sound. After a few minutes, Control chimed back in.

“Electra and Greaseball, bring C.B. with you; but keep a close eye on him. I don’t want him causing any more trouble tonight,” Control ordered before she buzzed out. The two engines groaned as they looked at C.B., who still grinned with that tin-soldier smile that made him easy to identify from a distance.

“This sucks,” Electra griped as Greaseball looked at C.B. warningly.

“Listen here, braketruck. We have no time for any of your shenanigans tonight, so if you want to come with, you’ll know exactly your place and whose side you’re on!”, G.B. warned the caboose as he and Electra shuffled off to the shunting yards. C.B. followed close behind, whispering to himself “I’m on mine...”

The shunting yards, 10:15pm…

Greaseball, Electra and C.B arrived at the shunting yards and saw a LOT of trains waiting for their deliveries to be loaded to their cars.

“So, you guys ready to rock?”, C.B. grinned eagerly as the two engines turned and looked.

“No,” they both responded in deadpan. C.B. began making his way into the yard, shouting “Good! ‘Cause we’ve got TRAINS TO LOAD!”

G.B. and Electra followed shortly, pulling up next to Rhinegold. He looked at them, but was surprised to see G.B. handing him a metal baseball bat.

“Here, please hit us as hard as you can,” G.B. muttered as Electra began guiding several coaches over to the InterContinental Express. The two ex-rivals’ attention was gotten by C.B. as he skated past.

“Hey, guys! I’m shunting the coaches… AT NIGHT!”, he enunciated as G.B. pinched the bridge of his nose and bent over for Rhinegold.

“Don’t hold back,” G.B. groaned as the German looked at him in confusion.

For the next two hours, G.B. and Electra tried to get their remaining jobs done - all while C.B. kept flaunting off all the good deeds he was doing to make sure his report was the cleanest.

“Hey, guys! Guess what? I’m polishing the signals… AT NIGHT!”

“Look at me; I’m shoveling the ashpit… AT NIGHT!”

“AGGH! I BURNED MY HAND WHILE FIXING THE BOLTS ON THE FURNACE… at night!” Szzzzzz....

Eventually, their job took the three to the Sidings, the pub situated in the middle of the yard, where the owner - a hydroelectric steam engine named Trudy - told them to take out the trash as their final job for the evening.

“Night, night, night, night…” chanted C.B. to the tune of a baseball charge-up organ song as he skated circles around the two engines. At this point, they had been able to tolerate most of C.B.’s bullshit, but now they were reaching their limit.

“Da-da-da-da-da-da! NIGHT!”, finished C.B. as he screamed into Greaseball’s ear. The diesel swung around furiously and looked at the caboose with his eyes spouting flames.

“WILL YOU PLEASE?!”, shrieked the diesel as he shoved the bag of garbage into his hands. “Here! Give us a moment’s peace and take this load of trash to Junker!”

“...OK! Takin’ out the trash, takin’ out the trash at ni-”

C.B. never finished that song, as he immediately stopped in front of the doors to the pub and gazed out into the darkness of the yard. He saw Junker’s deposit waiting outside the Freight Quarter, illuminated under a street lamp.

“Y-you mean outside?”, C.B. whimpered as Electra groaned.

“That’s where the dumpster is; yes,” the electric superstar beeped as C.B. pressed his face up against the glass.

“I don’t know, Electra; it’s kind of dark out there,” the caboose squeaked. Greaseball grinned wickedly as he looked towards C.B..

“Oh, wait a minute; but I thought you said you liked the night shift,” G.B. mockingly retorted. C.B., through sheer defiance, changed his face to a more determined one and he lifted the garbage bag over his shoulders.

“You’re right. FOR THE APOLLO VICTORIA!”, the caboose shouted triumphantly.

The micro-instant C.B. stepped outside the pub, he began shrieking and panicking like a banshee all the way to the garbage deposit. He didn’t even bother putting it into the disposal; he just yeeted it at Junker’s face before hightailing it back to the Sidings. As soon as he re-entered, the brake truck began panting heavily before he instantly regained his composure.

“Piece of cake,” C.B. grinned as he snapped his fingers. He swaggered over to the bar and joined Electra and Greaseball as Trudy served them a round for their hard work. On a nearby barstool, Poppa McCoy finished his cup of tap-water as he turned to face the trio.

“So, you boys AIN’T afraid?”, Poppa whistled as G.B. turned to face him, still clutching his bottle.

“What are you talking about, Poppa? Nothing interesting happens around here at night,” the diesel answered before downing his bottle.

“Well, I’m certainly afraid, Greaseball. Especially after… well, y’know,” the old steamer responded ominously. This got the attention of Electra and C.B., who looked up from their drinks.

“What? What do we know?”, Electra questioned the steamer confusedly.

“Oh, right. You two weren’t built yet. But C.B. was there; he probably remembers. Back in my day, it was all over the news from Wattington, D.C. all the way down to Lafayette,” spoke Poppa as Trudy dimmed the lights for a better effect.

“W-what are you talkin’ about, McCoy? I didn’t do nothing,” C.B. stammered as Greaseball and Electra got two more bottles.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you. It’d ruin the night shift for you,” crooned Poppa as he made his way for the door.

“What the hell happened, old-timer?!”, Electra shrieked as she shot a lightning bolt towards the door. The locks zapped in place, preventing anyone from entering or leaving.

“You mean you and Greaseball have never heard about the wreck of Ol’ 97?”, Poppa asked ominously. Electra and G.B., taken aback by his question, suddenly turned silent while C.B.’s face turned pale.

“The wreck of Ol’ 79?”, Electra asked puzzled. She hadn’t heard of it before, but now she was intrigued.

“The wreck of Ol’ 97!”, Poppa repeated more clearly. The two engines looked at each other in confusion while C.B. continued staring into the void, completely ignoring the voices going on around him.

“Ol’ 74...Ol' 43...Ol’ 25, the Ol’ 60.. 60, the Ol’ 70-sev…?”, said Greaseball and Electra repeatedly as they tried to make sense of Poppa’s words. 

“OLD 97!” Poppa screamed, his voice echoing off the walls. “BUT… most engines just call him Ol’ Ni-”, he said before breaking off into a choked scream. “Because that’s all they have time to say, before he RUNS THEM OFF THE RAILS!”

Spooked by Poppa’s words, Greaseball and Electra clutched their bottles tighter and nervously drank them as C.B. kept getting paler and paler by the minute.

“So, what happened? Tell us the story!”, Greaseball ordered the steamer as he tried taking a drink only for the beer to spill down his jacket much to his irritation.

“Years ago on the Southern Railroad, there was a fast mail train that was bound from Wattington, D.C. to Lafayette. The train’s number was 97, but everyone called it the Ol’ 97 due to the route’s age. Now, the engine at the head of that train was an express engine, much like you, Greaseball and Electra - except the railroad didn’t maintain him well. And then one night, while making a run, his brakes failed. He screamed down the hill at 90 MPH, begging for the caboose to apply the brakes but he didn’t. And as he flew off a trestle, it happened…”, Poppa regaled as everybody in the bar turned their attention to the steamer.

“He lost a mail car?”, inquired Electra.

“He lost his brakevan?”, asked Greaseball.

“His brakes finally turned on?”, C.B. pondered, trying to deflect attention away from him.

“NO, YOU FOOLS! He crashed head-first into the ground making his boiler explode!”, Poppa bellowed.

“You mean like this?”, G.B. asked as he got up to push Electra off her barstool and onto the ground. Electra, pissed off, got back up and pushed G.B on the ground too.

“Or like this? Or this? Or this? But what about this?”, the two engines bickered as they kept pushing each other to the ground. Poppa wasn’t amused, and he kept watching for a while until he got bored.

“Except he was a steam engine like me, you drillbits!”, Poppa interrupted. Greaseball was about to push Electra when the two looked.

“So?”, asked the Union Pacific diesel.

“HE GOT SCRAPPED ALIVE ALONG WITH EVERY MAIL CAR ON THAT TRAIN!!!”, Poppa roared. Realizing the severity of the story, Greaseball froze while Electra held her hands to her cheeks.

“OH LORD!!!”, shrieked the electric engine as she shot a bolt of lightning from her mohawk, taking out a nearby lightbulb. Trudy groaned in annoyance while the two engines sat down to listen to Poppa’s story.

“Like I said, he got scrapped that very day. And at his funeral, they decomissioned him from service. So now, every year on the date of that accident, his ghost rides the rails once more. Now, some say he’s trying to complete the journey so he may move onto the afterlife, while others say he’s looking for the caboose that brought about his untimely death so that he may wreak his horrible vengeance,” Poppa continued as C.B. went ghost-white with fear.

“What date did Ol’ 97 crash?”, asked Electra for clarification.

“September 3rd, in the year of Starlight 1903,” Poppa answered as Trudy checked a nearby calendar. Tonight was September 3; the date of the accident.

“But tonight’s the anniversary of the accident,” Trudy responded. Poppa looked around, darting his eyes at the windows.

“Then he’ll be coming,” Poppa muttered as he reached for the door handle. G.B. held up his hand to stop the steamer from leaving.

“How will we know?”, asked Greaseball. Poppa rolled his eyes as he took his seat to face the three.

“There are three signs that herald the approach of Ol’ 97’s ghost,” Poppa said as Trudy poured the three their last round of the night. “First, the signal lights will flicker on and off, off and on. Next-”

Suddenly, a Norfolk/Southern diesel named Bicholas burst in. He rolled over to the group and asked, “Hello, there. Have any of you seen an H6O Mikado named Ryan, recently?” 

C.B., remembering what Ryan said back at the gate, quickly responded albeit stammering: “W-why, yes. He was here. He said he was going to West Gershwin and then back to a place called ‘Greenwood’ or something.”

Without another word, the diesel rushed out of the bar, screaming “THANK YOU!” as they looked at each-other sheepishly. Poppa, now getting his senses back continued.

“Now, where was I? OH YES! Next, the intercom dispatch will buzz, but no one will answer. And finally, the ghost of Ol’ 97 emerges at 90 miles an hour from a shroud of mist,” Poppa continued as Electra bit her delicately manicured nails and Greaseball kept listening with intrigue.

“And then, he enters the yard and ignores any trainmaster’s warnings to stop him, because he’s already DEAD! And then, he’ll tap on the gates with a grizzly, outstretched skeletal hand,” Poppa regaled as C.B. began munching on some popcorn that Trudy had given him.

“He opens the gate,” said the old steamer before his whistle emitted a long, creaking sound resembling the opening of an old, squeaky door. He outstretched his hand past Electra and G.B.’s faces, only to pull it back.

“He slowly approaches the ROUNDHOUSE!”, Poppa shouted into their faces, catching Electra off-guard. G.B. helped her back up as C.B. continued biting his nails anxiously; they were down to the point where his bony fingers started appearing.

“And do you know what he does next, boy?”, Poppa asked. G.B., who had somehow remained calm throughout this entire story, began shaking nervously upon being asked this.

“What?”, Greaseball asked concernedly. Poppa got up closer.

“You guys REALLY want to know?”, Poppa asked more seriously.

“WHAT?”, Electra asked, her mohawk lighting up to shoot another bolt. Trudy held up a trash can lid, bracing herself for the inevitable lightning strike.

“Are you SURE you want to know?”, Poppa asked, this time for 100% clarification. By this point, G.B. and Electra were absolutely desperate for an answer.

“WHAT-WHAT-WHAT DOES HE DO?!?!”, they screamed as C.B. continued staring into the void.

“HE RIPS YOU OFF THE RAILS AND DRAGS YOU TO THE DEAD YARD IN HELL!”, bellowed Poppa with a mighty roar as he tapped C.B. on the shoulder. The caboose began screaming repeatedly, as Poppa began laughing his ass off. G.B. and Electra were spooked by the sudden jumpscare, but quickly regained their composure as Trudy put down the lid.

C.B. kept screaming throughout the bar, but his shrieks would not stop. This went on for 5 minutes, before Poppa smacked the soul out of the brake truck.

“CABOOSE! I was joking!”, he bellowed as C.B. rubbed his cheek, still reeling from the sting of the slap.

“You were?”, C.B. whimpered as Electra gave him her half of the bottle to finish.

“Of course I was! Every engine knows there’s no such thing as ghost trains; it was all a JOKE!”, Poppa explained as Greaseball finished his bottle for the night.

“Oh…”, C.B. realized… before bursting into laughter. Poppa just rolled his eyes as he made his way to the door.

“You two take good care of that brake truck; he’s a handful. I’ll be out running the midnight mail from Tuacahn to Northstar, so I won’t be back until noon tomorrow. See you, boys,” said Poppa as he trundled out the bar and into the night.

Later that night…

A neon-sign buzzed outside the Apollo Victoria saying “Open 24 Hours just for tonight!” as Greaseball and Electra checked their watches to read 2:01am. They were doing everything they can to keep their minds on: playing cards, playing Grand Theft Locomotive Online, writing Electra’s memoirs or taking turns telling a story. They were in the middle of chronicling a harrowing adventure between the two of them when they heard some strange sucking sounds echo throughout the pitch blackness of the yard.

Unbeknownst to the two, a certain braketruck was being “useful” by mopping up the station platform using a very old mop. As he crept up behind them, he spooked them with his sudden appearance.

“Isn’t this great, guys?” C.B asked the two. “There’s never time to clean the station during the day.”

Greaseball growled as Electra looked over. The station indeed looked pristine; almost as clean as the day it was opened. She gazed in awe at how shiny the platform was while Greaseball grumbled to himself.

“Open 24 hours for just one night; what a stupid fucking idea,” grumbled the Union Pacific diesel. “I mean, seriously; who the hell’s gonna come charging through here with the Midnight Express at 2:00 in the morning?!”

Suddenly, a horn blew out in the distance. G.B. watched as Zach the Amtrak came passing through at 70 miles an hour, and despite the high speed, he was able to hear something whir by him.

“HEYCHEATERSGOODTOSEEYOUTELLLAURAISAIDHIBYE…”

Greaseball blinked before shaking his head and facepalming himself. “Because of fucking course it had to be the goody two-shoes from Northstar. But back to what I was saying, JUST LOOK AT THIS PLACE! It’s like a goddamn ghost town in here!”

Suddenly, all the signals throughout the yard began changing from ‘red’ to ‘green’ and back as the colors flickered like crazy. Greaseball rolled his eyes as he looked over to Electra, who had just gotten done admiring the shiny platform.

“Very funny, Electra”, said G.B. annoyedly as the electric came back over to him.

“What is?”, she asked.

“‘And the signals will flicker on and off’, just like the story. I get it,” G.B. said sarcastically, expecting Electra to quit the joke already. But as he looked over to a nearby circuit-breaker, he noticed it hadn’t been touched. Wait, what? He thought to himself as C.B. came over.

“Hey, Grease; how you doin’ that without fucking up the circuit-breaker?”, the braketruck asked.

“I’m not doing it! It must be the stupid faulty wiring here; this yard wasn’t built to run 24 hours a day!”, G.B. shouted as a nearby intercom began buzzing. Electra, unaware of her receiver activating, began hearing static through her earpiece.

“Hello. Who is this? I can’t make out what you’re saying?”, she asked. No one replied; she kept asking “Hello? Hello?” as C.B. sauntered up next to her.

“Nice try, ‘Lectra,” C.B. grinned with a slight tone of concern in his voice.

“‘Nice try’ what, you homewrecking peppermint twink?”, asked Electra as she held the phone away.

“‘The intercom dispatch will buzz and there will be no one there’,” C.B. said while imitating Poppa. He cracked another grin as he pointed towards the two, “Oh, you suckers crack me up.”

“C.B., we’re not doing this!”, Electra spoke, feeling more scared in her life than ever before. Greaseball, noticing his friend’s worrying, held her by the shoulders and began massaging one.

“Calm down, ‘Lectra, calm down,” G.B. suggested comfortably. Electra, having been soothed, began looking around.

“Ok, where were we? First there was the signals,” Electra recounted as the signals flickered again. “Then the dispatch…”, she said as the receiver picked up static.

“And then… the tracks will be covered in grease and OIL!”, G.B. shouted concernedly as he pointed to a section of track before realizing. “Oh, wait; they’re always like that.”

“Then what the FUCK was the third thing?!”, Electra shouted as the sound of a steam whistle echoed throughout the yard. A shroud of mist descended and covered the yard, as Electra saw what appeared to be a headlight appear in the far distance. Slowly but surely, it kept getting closer as Greaseball and C.B. joined her and started watching.

“That’s strange. I didn’t know Poppa was back from his mail run so early,” C.B. quizzically pondered as Electra quietly whispered.

“...he’s not,” she said ominously as the approaching figure was coming towards the yard, FAST!

“Well, whoever it is is coming in fast, so we should probably open the gates to let them pass,” G.B. suggested as Electra narrowed her eyes for a closer look. Despite the shroud of mist coating everything in a thick layer, she was able to make out a rusted “No. 97” on the engine’s front.

The sound that emitted from her vocal chambers was a shriek hitherto unheard of before or since. A scream so loud that it would’ve shattered the eardrum of any mortal train. Her mohawk lit up like a Christmas tree and shot several bolts of lightning out around the yard, forcing the diesel and braketruck to hit the deck briefly.

“The G-g-g-gh… The G-g-g-gh… The G-g-gh-gho…”, Electra stammered as C.B. saw it and immediately realized.

“THE GHOST OF OL’ 97!”, he shouted before breaking down crying. Greaseball got up, saw the figure and looked towards his friends.

“At last you guys understand; we’re dead meat!”, G.B. exclaimed as C.B. wiped away a tear and fell to the ground, clinging onto Electra’s knee.

“I ADMIT IT! IT WAS ME! I CAUSED THE WRECK OF OL’ 97! I WAS CONTRACTED TO BY A RIVAL RAILROAD COMPANY! BUT THAT DOESN’T MATTER NOW!,” C.B. cried out as he looked up towards Electra. “I am just so hurt that you two went through the trouble to dress Poppa up as my most legendary kill and come barreling through the mist at 90 miles an hour just to intimidate me! You guys must really hate me!”

“C.B., there are several thousand problems wrong with your theory, but considering our imminent deaths, we’ll list the two major ones we have: One, we actually give a shit about you; in fact, G.B. even considers you our honorary third guy in the trio,” said Electra.

“And two: how can that be Poppa when he’s still doing the mail run A THOUSAND FUCKING MILES AWAY from here?!”, G.B. shrieked as the mysterious engine pulled up to the gate. It’s outstretched skeletal hand began drumming on the iron bars, as Greaseball emitted a shriek identical to that of Electra’s a few minutes prior.

“THE GHOST OF OL’ 97!!!”, shrieked the trio as they began hugging each other for dear life. The engine slowly approached them, it’s skeletal hand continuing to reach out towards them.

“Greaseball, Electra, no matter what I’ve said, I’ve always sort of liked you guys!”, C.B. wailed as he shivered.

“C.B., you’re probably gonna kick my ass for this, but I accidentally used your special limited edition pin-up poster of my ex-girlfriend to unclog Electra’s air intake!”, Greaseball shouted out in a moment of weakness. C.B. stopped feeling scared upon this revelation.

“You WHAT?! Why, I oughtta…”, C.B. growled as he began strangling Greaseball to death while Electra held out her arms defensively towards the figure.

“GET AWAY! YOU’RE NOT WELCOME HERE!”, she shrieked as the mysterious figure pulled into the station. The bright light illuminated them, and Electra opened her eyes to see what appeared to be a large Chesepeake & Ohio steamer.

“We hate to ask you so late, but do you have a place we can bunk for the night? I promise, me and my friends will be gone before sunrise,” the steamer explained as Electra looked behind him to see five other steam engines.

“Let me guess; you’re looking for Ryan?”, Electra asked. The large steamer smiled.

“Yeah, we are. We heard about some diesel chasing him through these parts, so we decided to go looking for him. We would’ve called your yard earlier, but ONE OF US hanged up because he was nervous,” the steamer explained. 

The large steamer (who was named Michael) suddenly remembered that this wasn’t their home universe. And that this obligatory crossover had to end before a certain person picked up on it.

“Do you have any references?”, G.B. croaked as the caboose stopped choking him to look at the steamers.

“Wait a fucking second. If that was you guys on the phone and you guys in the mist… then who was flickering the signal lights?”, C.B. asked ominously. Greaseball, Electra, C.B. and the five steamers looked at each other suspiciously, until the large steamer in front said, “Not our problem” and rolled away to the roundhouse, his five friends in tow.

The three were left all alone once again, still pondering the answer to C.B.’s question when they all looked over towards the signalbox’s circuit-breaker and to their surprise, standing there was a green Class 800 fiddling with the controls. The trio, upon realizing who it was, all looked over and said in unison…

“Oh, DARTMOOR!”, the trio laughed heartily as the Class 800 gave a little smile before the yard went pitch black.

THE END


End file.
